


With and Without Shame

by Nuanta



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dancing, Ferdibert Secret Santa 2020 (Fire Emblem), Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pre-Timeskip | Academy Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Scars, Semi-Public Sex, Trans Hubert von Vestra, Trans Male Character, is it mutual pining? we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta
Summary: Hubert has worked tirelessly so that Edelgard's dreams can come to fruition. He cannot and will not allow himself to fall prey to petty distraction, especially not when it comes to one particularly belligerent classmate. But a group mission to Faerghus, the White Heron Cup, and the winter ball all have other plans in store for him.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 19
Kudos: 75
Collections: Ferdibert Secret Santa 2020 Edition





	With and Without Shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yuukibozu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuukibozu/gifts).



> Here it is, my gift to Lyre as part of the Ferdibert Secret Santa! I saw your prompts and maybe went a little overboard trying to accommodate a little bit of everything in this story, but I really hope you like it!
> 
> Infinite thank you's to [scatteringmyashes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes) and [donniedont](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donniedont/pseuds/donniedont) for all the help brainstorming and sensitivity reading. This is my first time writing a trans character and I really wanted to make sure I did right by the community here. I realize I probably can't please everyone, but I hope this is a decent start.
> 
> Note that while this fic takes place in pre-timeskip, all parties involved are 18+. 
> 
> CWs for this fic: masturbating with someone else in the room while they're asleep, traditionally feminine terms for genitalia (clit), and mentions of top surgery scars.

Legends say that certain times of the year are more sacred than others. They say that there are select events where the Goddess’ will coalesces with mortals’ wants and desires, and substantiates itself through visible, tangible signs. They say Ethereal Moon boasts one such occasion, should one visit the Goddess Tower the night of the annual ball. They say that if two people meet there, the Goddess will hear their wills and manifest her power to entwine their fates and make their dreams reality. Some speculate that these wishes must be of a purely romantic nature; others insist the Goddess will grant any sort of aspiration.

Frankly, as far as Hubert is concerned, they can all shove themselves in a ditch.

Such whimsies are foolhardy at best. They are borne from naïveté, from simple-minded fools who lack the resolve to carve their own path and work to build their own place in the world, of their own merit. For what use is bragging about needing some higher power to accomplish one’s goals? If anything, it reeks of gross incompetence, that one required so-called _divine intervention_ to achieve anything of worth mentioning.

Hubert would see those beliefs toppled through blood, sweat, and tears. He and Edelgard would show the world what was possible when people took matters into their own hands.

Although, if he were to permit himself the brief indulgence, however, he would not be opposed to the Goddess erasing all traces of snow from Faerghus.

It was an unfortunate collapsing domino effect: the Fraldarius heir’s unexplained—though not unreasonable—hatred of the Faerghan prince had somehow reached a new height, which prompted his request to the Professor to join their house. This was actually…a possibly fortuitous circumstance, if there was such a rift among Faerghan nobility. It was a tool Hubert could use, going forward with their plans. They were so close now. If they could sway Fraldarius to their side, of all people…

The problem, then, was that the very next day, a missive had arrived at the monastery requesting assistance in clearing a mob of bandits from Fraldarius territory. An opportunity to place the House in their debt, to be sure. That the Black Eagles class would venture north to dispatch the ruffians was never in question.

“It will not do to simply shove the stakes into the snow!” Ferdinand von Aegir is blathering, loud and obnoxious for all of their classmates to hear. “The snow is deceptively thick, but we must ensure the stakes dig deep into the ground if we wish for them to hold steadfast through the harsh nighttime winds—”

“For the seventh time, everyone knows this already,” Hubert snaps. “Your energy would be better spent actually helping to set up the tent rather than assaulting the eardrums of everyone in earshot.”

Von Aegir turns to glare at Hubert, his fuzzy yellow earmuffs clashing horribly with the shocking mop of hair currently wet with snow and sticking to his face, his cheeks and nose tinged pink from cold and not exertion.

“Oh, so you are going to let me help you then?” he sniffs. “Just a few minutes ago you were delegitimizing my abilities, as if you can do any better.”

“I am the one putting up this tent, am I not?” Hubert growls. “And yet you’ve found nothing to complain about, so I can only assume you’ve realized your words are empty.”

On second thought, perhaps it would be better if the Goddess magically removed von Aegir’s vocal chords, so that they would never have to argue again.

Why the Professor had thought to pair von Aegir with him when distributing the two-person tents is beyond him. If separating by gender had been their goal, von Aegir should have been placed with Fraldarius, and Hubert on his own, rather than gifting that luxury to Fraldarius. Or if anatomy was the issue, then there was no reason to separate Hubert from Edelgard in the first place. Though the Professor perhaps did not know that yet. And if they didn’t, Hubert had no inclinations to enlighten them regardless.

Miraculously, von Aegir does not ruin what Hubert has set up so far. He does, however, change the topic of his incessant prattling to that of the upcoming White Heron Cup in a hapless attempt to seek encouragement from Hubert with regards to his training. Hubert is still baffled as to why their Professor chose von Aegir as the Black Eagle House’s representative when they already boast a seasoned performer in Miss Arnault. Now he gets to be fit to crawl out of his own skin as von Aegir talks his ears off about various dancing techniques he doesn’t give a rat’s ass for.

Well. If von Aegir ends up being a horrific embarrassment to their class, at least no one will remember it in the grand scheme of things. Not when Edelgard’s plans will overshadow all of these meaningless school life trifles. If Hubert focusses on that, runs through mental checklists of all the preparations under way, he can drown out von Aegir’s yammering.

Once the tents are up, Hubert and the other casters start up campfires for cooking dinner, ostensibly for warmth as well. It is frigid, especially when the winds blow even more of a chill in, and Hubert shudders to think of the drop in temperature when the sun goes down.

All the more reason to make quick work of dinner and turn in early.

Hubert retreats to his tent as soon as he’s finished eating and uses a carefully controlled Fire spell to dry out any traces of snow from his clothing; he will need as many warm layers as possible if he wants to sleep tonight. He spreads his bedroll across one half of the tent, carefully noting the spatial allocations (sparse), and crawls inside. If sleep finds him before the cold sets in, hopefully that will be enough to ensure he gets a full night’s rest.

Of course, his plan assumes a respectful roommate. Not Ferdinand von Aegir.

Von Aegir, who traipses into the tent without care for discretion, loudly huffing and brr-ing as he enters. Von Aegir, who throws the flap open which then gets caught in the wind, bringing even more of the wintry air inside and sending goosebumps racing across Hubert’s fully clothed skin. He shivers and tries to curl in on himself, to no avail. Now that von Aegir has allowed the freezing air inside, there will be no escaping it.

“Oh!” von Aegir exclaims. “Hubert, are you trying to sleep so early?”

“Trying _was_ the operative word,” Hubert retorts. “Close the damn tent up already, lest you intend to turn this place into an icebox.”

“It has not been open for that long,” von Aegir protests.

“Do you really want to tempt nature?”

Von Aegir grumbles, but ultimately heeds Hubert’s words. Infuriatingly, he lights a candle, the flame burning the backs of Hubert’s eyelids even when he rolls over to face the side of the tent instead, even as he tries to close his eyes and rest. But he cannot, not when von Aegir is clumsily setting himself up in the other half of the tent, loudly rummaging through his travel pack for his things, rustling through a change in clothing. Not when all the warmth Hubert had gathered within his bedroll has now been replaced with the brutal reality of the Faerghan climate.

“Keep it down,” he hisses.

Behind him, he hears von Aegir scoff. “I am doing my best! It is not my fault you decided to go to bed early like my grandmother.”

Hubert bristles. “I am certain your grandmother is a far more competent and considerate individual than yourself.”

“I—that is not—”

“I am trying to sleep!”

Von Aegir clams up mid-retort, but the damage is already done. Hubert’s ears ring and the fabric of his bedroll is too cold and there is no comfortable position to sleep in. Eventually, the sounds cease, indicating von Aegir has similarly retired for the night, only to pick up again a few minutes later. No doubt von Aegir is tossing and turning as he, too, tries in vain to lie comfortably.

And then he starts sighing.

“Will you shut up and sleep already?” Hubert snaps.

“I just need time to warm myself up first!”

“You wouldn’t if you hadn’t let all that cold air in to begin with.”

“It was not that bad!”

“If neither of us sleeps tonight, it’s your fault.”

“I will sleep just fine! Even if Aegir territory does not experience such temperatures, my body will certainly adapt. Unlike yours, clearly.”

“ _Will you shut up already_.”

The tent goes blessedly silent, save for the occasional shuffling. Even Hubert is not immune to movement; he crosses his arms and legs, pulls the bedroll close—anything to get warm. But the night passes over what seems like an eternity, and Hubert’s jaw is locked up tight from clenching his teeth together to prevent them from clattering, and he keeps needing to stretch his limbs to make sure his body hasn’t frozen over.

If the sounds from von Aegir’s half of the tent are any indication, neither of them sleeps a wink that night.

When the light from the sunrise reflects brightly off the blanket of snow across the lands and directly through the flimsy tent material to incinerate Hubert’s eyelids, he begrudgingly forces himself into a seated position and rubs at his burning eyes. He’ll have to subsist on coffee for this one.

Thankfully, Edelgard appears much more rested than him, and confirms this with him when he privately checks in with her.

“We were cold at first, but once Bernadetta and I started huddling for warmth, that made all the difference,” she says.

Hubert decidedly does not let his surprise, nor his distaste, show on his face. “Huddle for warmth,” he repeats.

“Well, yes. It was the most efficient way to stay warm. Everyone I’ve spoken with so far has done so.” She frowns. “Haven’t you?”

He shakes his head, despite being hit with the sudden realization that most of their classmates do not appear as sleep deprived as himself and von Aegir. “That is wholly unnecessary,” he mutters.

Edelgard makes a face. “Hubert, I can’t have you weakened from the cold on this mission. We’ve sacrificed much worse to get to where we are so far. Surely this pales in comparison.”

“There is no need to sacrifice anything,” he assures her. “I have survived much worse than this.”

She looks like she dearly wishes to say more on the matter, but Hubert is mercifully spared admonishment by the Professor calling everyone together to commence the day’s trek.

Hubert observes von Aegir closely, albeit from a careful distance. The idiot has bags under his eyes, a stark contrast to the boisterous attitude he carries himself with as he forces conversation upon his peers. A poor attempt to forget the cold and exhaustion, no doubt—and perhaps an opportunity to overhear him let slip any possible thoughts of sedition.

That is perhaps just slightly unfair; von Aegir lacks the subtlety and foresight to launch any unwelcome plots against Edelgard, and there is no chance he is discerning enough to suspect them in their current planning. They have been far too discreet for a buffoon like him to discover them. Still, with their goals inching closer and closer to fruition, their classmates’ reactions remain one tangled mess of wild cards.

Thus, they must all remain under intensive scrutiny. Von Aegir especially, given his family background. Count Varley’s daughter poses no threat, meek as she is; if Counts Hevring and Bergliez were not currently cooperating with Edelgard behind the scenes, Hubert would certainly pay more attention to their sons. Duke Aegir, on the other hand, has blown his son’s inflated ego out of proportion. So it is natural, then, that Hubert pays extra attention to the Aegir whelp—he would do so even if he did not despise his guts.

There’s nothing inherently dangerous with the garbage that spews from von Aegir’s mouth, but by the end of the day of trudging through the thick layers of snow on the ground, Hubert’s head pounds relentlessly from the echoing timbre of von Aegir’s unruly commentary. And he is still frozen.

Von Aegir’s teeth chatter audibly while they set up their tent; the necessity of warmth drives them both somehow to work in tandem and get the blasted thing sorted in record time. They join their classmates around the campfire for dinner, but the flames are not quite enough to reach down to Hubert’s bones.

Edelgard shoots him a concerned look, the embers lighting her eyes and giving them an added piercing aura. She won’t expose him in front of the others, of course, but the silent message is clear: _Speak to Ferdinand so that you can both sleep tonight_. He does not deign to give any indication of acquiescence or refusal.

He is spared from having to tell Edelgard that the topic was not brought up at all, however, as von Aegir himself broaches the subject once they’re curling in on themselves in their bedrolls in the flimsy tent.

“Absolutely not,” Hubert says flatly.

“And why not? Edelgard herself is making use of such tactics. Surely you wouldn’t consider this beneath you, given how you hold Edelgard on such a high pedestal.”

“Your goading attempts are useless,” Hubert informs him. “The others found solutions to their problems that sufficed for them, and I found one that suits me. Unfortunate for you if you cannot do the same.”

Von Aegir bristles, the pink dusting across his cheeks from the cold deepening into red embarrassment. “That is decidedly untrue,” he argues. “You were tired this morning as well.”

“Did you see me yawning on and off for the rest of the day after taking my coffee?” Hubert sneers. “No, because I managed perfectly with it. Unlike you, interrupted by yawns every other sentence that came out of your undisciplined mouth.”

“I did not—”

“Good night, von Aegir.”

It is, of course, a terrible night of more tossing and turning and shivering uncontrollably. When they both sit up at sunrise, it is clear neither have managed to get any rest. Von Aegir opens his mouth, no doubt to spit some ridiculous _I told you so_ nonsense in Hubert’s face, but Hubert is quick to pull his stash of ground coffee beans from his pack and wave it in front of that insufferable idiot’s eyes by way of punctuation.

He brews and drinks his coffee over the morning campfire, and suffice to say the hot liquid jumpstarts him back into lucidity. When von Aegir yawns his way through the dismantling of the tent, Hubert stares at him pointedly until von Aegir sighs heavily and his shoulders sag.

The coffee’s effects, however, are much shorter lived today. It takes considerable effort to drag his leaden limbs through the snow, an effect caused by the poisonous combination of cold and fatigue, and when they stop to make camp for the night Hubert is about ready to pray to a goddess he no longer believes in to please end this forsaken frozen hellscape.

“Enough posturing,” von Aegir huffs when they’re both settling in. “You are suffering just as I am. Let us put our differences aside just for the night so that we may both find some modicum of comfort here.”

“It will bring me no comfort to share your bedroll,” Hubert sneers.

“Nor will I enjoy it, vile as you are,” von Aegir returns, “but you cannot deny it will help improve our conditions. We execute our mission tomorrow. People are depending on us being in fine form.”

“Go pester Fraldarius in his tent, then.”

“Felix is well acclimated to the weather, and you know how he abhors companionship.”

“And I abhor it as well.”

“Edelgard will not be pleased if you jeopardize our House’s mission!”

Cold fury rises up Hubert’s chest and throat. “This has nothing to do with her,” he seethes. Curse von Aegir for worming into his skin and affecting him thusly. Of all the insolent—

“For the sake of the Saints, Hubert, it will not kill you to form a temporary truce.”

Hubert’s sigh violently shreds from his chest. “Fine!” he snaps. “Do what you will, but if you try anything out of the ordinary I will not hesitate to crush a Mire spell down your throat.” He wriggles into his bedroll, rolling onto his side and turning away from von Aegir. Let him handle the rest, then, if he is so insistent on it.

There’s a beat, then von Aegir gingerly slips in behind him. His legs fumble and stretch as he situates himself, but eventually his chest is flush against Hubert’s back and an arm is tentatively slung over Hubert’s waist. And he is. Warm.

It is the most humiliating experience of Hubert’s wretched life.

He keeps himself stiff as a board as von Aegir shifts minutely behind him, and remains this way long after von Aegir’s breathing transforms into light snores. While he cannot deny that von Aegir’s body heat is certainly making a difference—Hubert does not wish for more fat or muscle mass for his own form, but he cannot deny its use here—it only serves to box him in. That arm around him may as well be a searing brand.

And it is only magnified by the unmistakable press of von Aegir’s hardness right up against Hubert’s ass.

“Von Aegir,” he hisses. “Control yourself at once.”

He is met with naught but the gentlest rolling of hips, and a sudden, breathy moan.

All of the heat rushes to Hubert’s groin as it throbs eagerly in answer.

This cannot be happening.

There is no rhyme or reason to explain this reaction to such a loathsome individual. And yet, it only takes the smallest of twitches; each grind of von Aegir’s dick against the clothed crack of Hubert’s backside sends him pulsing with arousal anew.

There is no way for him to ignore it and sleep. He can roll over and shove von Aegir awake, or—

He can be discreet about this. Von Aegir will be none the wiser. That is…preferable, in the end. With the arm not in contact with von Aegir’s, Hubert slides a hand into his smalls and crooks two fingers against his clit.

The first brush is an instant relief as heat swells low in Hubert’s belly, but it’s nowhere near enough just yet. But before he can repeat the motion again, he waits, counts ten torturous seconds in his head to ensure von Aegir has not stirred from his actions.

No signs of lucidity. Only the slow circling of hips behind him, and inadvertent moans.

That Hubert’s body is reacting is just that—a reaction to a natural biological process. Hubert had sought to suppress his own biology through all sorts of experimental means, and he had succeeded in certain regards, but this. He had not the means for this.

The only solution is to seek his release quickly and efficiently.

So Hubert rubs his clit between the pads of two fingers, his body clenching in on itself in pursuit, and he squeezes his eyes shut as he tries to focus on keeping up the motions with minimal effect to the cadence of his breathing. Behind him, he can hear those unconscious noises, and each one, each press of von Aegir’s length against him sends another wave of arousal coursing through him, building.

It’s over mercifully quick. As the pressure mounts, Hubert twists his other arm away from von Aegir and clamps his hand over his mouth, stifling the sigh that escapes him as he shudders apart in his shame.

Von Aegir sleeps on.

And come morning, there will be no trace of Hubert’s antics.

With the relaxation that follows climax, Hubert sinks back into von Aegir’s unlikely embrace. The warmest he’s been since they departed on this awful mission, he sleeps through the rest of the night.

The next morning, von Aegir is none the wiser of what had transpired. There is no trace of embarrassment, no averted gazes, no fumbling words. Hubert almost— _almost_ —wishes there were, rather than face the smug boasting of how von Aegir had been right, that their nighttime strategy had indeed allowed for the two of them to be well rested.

It is too much to deal with. Hubert doesn’t dignify any of von Aegir’s commentary with a response, and swiftly exits the tent instead.

The Professor gathers them all at breakfast to discuss the plan of attack.

“Dealing with bandits is generally an uncomplicated matter,” they say, “unless there are innocent villagers caught in the crossfire. There is good reason to suspect that will be the case here. If you see any villagers nearby, you need to lure the bandits away from them before you can launch a safe attack.”

Hubert glances over at von Aegir, who is listening with rapt attention, nodding fervently along with the Professor’s words. Just like a dependent child. Hubert rolls his eyes and catches Edelgard watching him with a bemused expression. He grimaces at her, and the corners of her mouth tick upwards.

Lord Fraldarius is already there with a small contingent of his own soldiers when they arrive upon the scene, caught up trying to stand between the ruffians and the straggling villagers who have not managed to flee to safety yet. His son has some choice words for him even while their Professor directs a group to clear a path.

Unfortunately, while Hubert and Edelgard are both assigned that duty together along with Miss Arnault, von Aegir is also dispatched to go with them. He can’t deny the logic here: two sturdy warriors to lead the charge and cover the two casters in the back. What’s more, Miss Arnault’s affinity for white magic can serve as additional support while Hubert provides the offensive spells.

He would have much preferred von Bergliez or Fraldarius to fill von Aegir’s spot, however.

Still, they have a job to do, so as they split from the rest of their classmates, Hubert is sure to mutter words for von Aegir alone: “You better follow Lady Edelgard’s lead.”

The reaction is instantaneous; von Aegir’s frustration is palpable. “It is my duty to call her out should her strategies prove inefficient!”

“And who, exactly, was the one who protested and broke formation and was lucky to escape with his life in our most recent mission?” Hubert retorts. “You’d do well to remember your place this time.”

Fortuitously, there is no time for von Aegir to respond, for a small group of bandits spots them and beelines in their direction. At least the idiot knows how to prioritize.

What the bandits have in lofty numbers, they lack in skill. It’s much easier than expected to rout them; Lord Fraldarius was right to be admonished by his son for being unable to contain the attacks on his own. Still, experience is experience, even if it would have been more productive to remain at the monastery and finalize the remaining aspects of their plans.

They’re almost done with their designated task when Edelgard spots a mop of tousled blonde hair sticking out from behind a stack of logs across the street. Small fingers grip the wood tightly.

There is a bandit just on the other side.

“We must take this cur away from that child,” von Aegir declares, but Hubert stops him.

“Out of my way,” he snarls, and then he’s blasting a streak of Mire directly into the bandit’s face.

Edelgard seizes her opening to finish the job, as if the spell wouldn’t suffocate the attacker in the first place, and Miss Arnault rushes to check the child for injuries and escort them to safety.

Von Aegir, however, rounds on Hubert then, stepping forward until he’s encroaching upon Hubert’s space, their chests nearly touching. His face is red from more than just the temperature, and his breath releases in angry, visible puffs.

“How dare you!” von Aegir practically spits in his face. “We had orders to lead the bandits away from any innocents in order to keep them out of the crossfire—”

“The child was in no danger from my Mire,” Hubert cuts in smoothly. “My spells obey my will. There was no chance of it striking anywhere save down that bandit’s throat. The warning was unnecessary for me.”

A thrill jolts through him at seeing von Aegir so sputtering and furious. It is so very easy to rile him up. It’s as good fuel as his daily coffee is.

“Then you should have made your case earlier, and an explicit exception should have been made for you,” von Aegir insists. “You have no business discarding whatever orders you deem unworthy of you.”

Hubert tilts his chin up to stare von Aegir down. “I accomplished our task more swiftly this way, did I not?”

“That is beside the point! The means are just as important as the ends—”

“What’s going on here?” Edelgard steps up to them, and von Aegir instantly recoils. Hubert smirks, delighting in the way von Aegir squirms.

“Hubert disobeyed a direct order,” von Aegir explains hotly. “You cannot possibly condone his actions when our mission’s success had never been in jeopardy in the first place. Does this not prove that he may not even respect commands from you, who will one day be his Emperor?”

Edelgard shoots him a level stare. “I trust Hubert’s judgment in carrying out my will,” she says with a tone of swift finality. “And he has earned that trust through his many years of service to me.”

Von Aegir sputters. “This blatant favoritism will create many enemies.”

“I will have enemies regardless, Ferdinand,” Edelgard says. “And I cannot expect to be able to micromanage every single thing. Therefore, my advisors and generals will be entrusted with handling affairs in the manner that best reflects my desires.”

“You will need more than just people like Hubert for that,” von Aegir argues. “As the one who will eventually become your Prime Minister, you should be extending similar sentiments to me—and yet, all you do is critique me.”

Edelgard’s glare turns as glacial as the landscape. “Just as you do to me?”

Von Aegir’s mouth clamps shut.

She sighs, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “If ever you wish to truly work with me, rather than against me, then we’ll speak candidly,” she says. “Come on. We need to report back to the Professor.”

Hubert watches von Aegir fume the rest of the day: on the walk to rejoin the rest of their class, while they eat and take care of any injuries, on the first leg of their trek back home, while they’re setting up their tent for the night. Seeing him stymied like this is truly a beautiful sight to behold. Of course von Aegir wouldn’t wish to work with them. That’s why he had nothing of merit to say.

It’s why Hubert must continue to watch him closely for the rest of his time as a student. Just in case.

It’s another frigid night, and Hubert is perfectly content to crawl into his bedroll and shiver his way until sunrise until von Aegir says tersely, “Shall we make the next couple of nights slightly more bearable?”

Hubert looks over at him; von Aegir’s back is completely turned to him, tension evident in his shoulders, the curve of his spine. And he is trembling, no doubt from the cold.

There’s a strange sort of satisfaction that comes from the one presently hating his guts being the one to suggest getting closer. If it will humiliate von Aegir further to sink so low, who is Hubert to refuse him?

“As you wish,” Hubert says simply, and lies in wait in his bedroll, leaving it up to von Aegir once more as he rolls to face away from him.

And so their arrangement continues—except it happens again.

And again.

The days on their journey back to the monastery pass uneventfully, but every night, without fail—Hubert will feel von Aegir’s hardened length pressing against his backside as he sleeps, and his body will inevitably betray him in response.

Hubert hates it. And yet, he cannot seem to help himself either.

On their final morning, Hubert awakens to the sun filtering through the tent’s fabric and von Aegir’s hips grinding against him, gasping moans of pleasure into his ear.

No. Absolutely not. He’s had enough of this farce.

“Wake up, you imbecile,” he hisses, digging his elbow backwards into von Aegir’s chest.

“ _Yes_ ,” von Aegir groans, and Hubert elbows him again. “What?”

“Control yourself, you miserable ingrate.”

There’s a beat, and then von Aegir practically flings himself out of the bedroll, a flush so violent bursting across his cheeks and ears that Hubert is momentarily stunned.

“Hubert! I am so sorry!” He babbles out one apology after another. “How shameful—I am beyond embarrassed that this—and with you, of all people—”

Hubert barks out a laugh; he can’t help himself. “I assure you, the resentment is mutual. Just shut up and forget about it.”

That seems to placate him enough, though he doesn’t look at Hubert for the rest of the day. It suits Hubert just as well; it is hardly news that von Aegir finds him so repulsive. Yet a strange sensation curdles in his stomach at that.

These adverse reactions must be quelled. He has more important work to do.

Work which involves careful scrutiny of the rest of his classmates. So if Hubert spends some time in the days leading up to the White Heron Cup secretly watching von Aegir’s fluid dancing practice, well, no one else needs to know.

Von Aegir is declared the victor in the competition, surprising many. Hubert is not one of them. He cannot tell if he’s disappointed by that or not.

Even once the contest is over, von Aegir continues to practice his technique in a secluded corner of the gardens, behind some of the shrubberies, in the evening after-hours. Ostensibly he would do well to hone his skills if the Professor intends for him to utilize them on the battlefield, but Hubert suspects he might only be preparing himself for the winter ball, no doubt eager to impress the myriad dance partners he plans to take.

There is no indication that von Aegir is engaging in seditious correspondence, with his father or otherwise. He will not be able to stop the dismissal of the dukedom, nor the impending consequences for the current Duke Aegir. He will not pose much of a threat, nor an obstacle.

It would still be prudent to continue to observe him. Hubert cannot fathom why he would continue to do so otherwise.

That logic falls apart at the ball.

It’s an exaggeratedly bedazzled affair. Everyone is dressed in their best formal uniforms, and the hall has been decorated with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling sporting sparkling magical flames. The walls are lined with similar contraptions, and it all gives the hall a certain ethereal glow to it.

That makes it rather impossible for Hubert to find a shadowy corner to lurk in, but he does his best, his back plastered to the wall and watching Edelgard make her way through a variety of dance partners. She’d given him explicit orders not to intervene, and she seems strangely at ease—he supposes she deserves this brief reprieve ahead of the fulfilment of their work. Still, he keeps an eye out, just in case.

And then von Aegir requests a dance from her.

His hair is perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place even as he bows low with impeccable posture before extending a hand to her. Edelgard accepts his offer, and von Aegir gently lifts her dainty white glove to his lips, and suddenly, Hubert is burning.

But Edelgard has consented, and there are no signs of discomfort in her expression, so Hubert must keep himself rooted in place while his nerves catch fire.

Von Aegir is poised and steady as he leads Edelgard in circles across the dance floor, deftly weaving them around other couples, never straying too close. Hubert is further incensed by the way he holds her so close, as if anyone else cares that he demonstrates proper technique.

What’s baffling about it all is how Edelgard smiles, a small, innocuous thing, like she’s been confided a secret. Has she discovered useful information about von Aegir through their dance? That would be a fine tactic indeed. Hubert supposes he can approve of their dance if it bears fruit for their future plans.

Edelgard is a picture of beauty and grace, every inch a regal ruler. Yet rather than simply framing her for all to admire, von Aegir somehow manages to shine just as brightly.

Impossible.

Even when their round is over and von Aegir moves on to his next partner, he is resplendent. He beams, infuriatingly wide, at anyone who elects to dance with him; he guides them across the dance floor, light-footed and easy as if he is floating; he synchronizes with the ebbs and flows of the music as if it is a part of him. And when he dips his head, indulgent, to kiss a hand in gratitude—when his eyes lift up and connect directly with Hubert’s from across the room, for but a moment—

“You know you could just ask him to dance instead of glaring daggers at him all night,” says Edelgard from beside him.

Hubert blinks as he tears his vision away from the dance floor and towards his liege, his chest tightening at the realization of his gross neglect.

“I have absolutely no intention nor any desire to dance with him,” Hubert says stiffly.

Edelgard raises an eyebrow. “So you had some other reason to stare at him like that?”

“Merely keeping an eye on him lest he be caught conspiring.”

Edelgard smiles that same knowing smile she’d given von Aegir. “I am quite certain we have nothing to worry about there,” she says firmly. “And if you’re not planning on dancing with anyone tonight, surely you can at least spare a few minutes to dance with me?”

“As my lady wishes,” Hubert says, even though he would much prefer to dance with no one at all. He bows deeply and extends an arm to lead Edelgard back onto the dance floor.

They don’t converse. Hubert leads her through the dance, just as he was taught to do, without pomp and circumstance. He keeps his gaze firmly just past her left ear, and while he may lack von Aegir’s practiced ease, he is certainly proficient enough to draw attention to his lady, to ensure she is admired.

When the musical number ends, Edelgard says, “Come fetch a drink with me,” and Hubert follows wordlessly.

Sipping on some punch at the refreshments table along the far end of the hall, eyes lighting up when they approach, is none other than von Aegir himself.

“Edelgard! Hubert! This evening is marvelous, wouldn’t you say?”

Hubert stifles a groan as Edelgard answers, “This has been a lovely event.” Her eyes glint and she grins. “Why, I even got Hubert to dance with me, which no one else has been capable of, so I would declare tonight a resounding success!”

Von Aegir’s eyes widen for several seconds before his brow furrows. “Well, that cannot hold. Hubert, you must dance with me, next.”

Just like that, his nerves are ablaze again, his spine tingling. “Absolutely not.”

“And why not? I am a better dancer than Edelgard—after all, I won our House the White Heron Cup, did I not?”

“That has nothing to do with anything. Just because you were the Professor’s choice does not make you a better dancer than Lady Edelgard.”

“And your claims are baseless until you have practical evidence.”

“Your attempts to goad me will not work. You should know this by now.”

“Actually,” Edelgard interjects, “I would quite like to hear your findings.” And ah, that’s what she’s been smiling about all this time.

He cannot help but feel slightly betrayed, even though he is sworn to her. “If my lady insists,” he says, his voice clipped.

“I will let you lead, so that you can compare myself and Edelgard in the same role.” Von Aegir makes a show of his grand offering, and Hubert wants nothing more than to wipe the smugness off his face.

All he can do for now is snatch up von Aegir’s wrist and pull him onto the dance floor.

His hands fit frustratingly well over von Aegir’s waist, in his own hand. Von Aegir presses himself in close when Hubert does not step in, and Hubert can feel the heat radiating off von Aegir’s chest. Looking over von Aegir’s shoulder, Hubert begins to move.

Von Aegir’s hand is searing hot where it’s clamped on Hubert’s shoulder. His fingers flex as Hubert twirls them around, and Hubert tenses for a moment as it sends a jolt of heat through his torso and straight to his groin.

Why this? Why does von Aegir of all people affect him this way?

“Can you not concentrate long enough to even lead properly?” von Aegir huffs, his breath warm across Hubert’s cheeks.

“I—”

“Switch hands, then, and I shall demonstrate how true leading is done.”

Before Hubert can object, the hand on his shoulder is suddenly tugging the hand on von Aegir’s waist higher, and his other hand is suddenly grasping only at air. But he’s already being pulled along like a branch caught in a current, and he instinctively clasps von Aegir’s shoulder to steady himself.

It’s downright mortifying, being this close, their chests, flush together, von Aegir’s breathing tickling the shell of his ear, his legs entangling deftly between his own—the closest they’ve been since those nights in the tent in Faerghus—

Unthinkingly, his gaze shifts to von Aegir’s face, and he finds those smoldering eyes staring straight into his soul, seeing through all his walls, his petty arguments, and Hubert knows, with all the certainty in the world, that he’s been found wanting.

The music slows to a stop, and so do they. They’re near an exit, Hubert thinks wildly. He’s stupidly disoriented, his blood raging in his ears.

“You know,” von Aegir says, low and directly in Hubert’s ear. “I have to admit, I am starting to realize that I might be wrong about you. About a lot of things.”

Hubert’s brain jams. His pulse is a roaring inferno now, devastatingly hopeful in spite of himself. “Might?” he croaks.

Unbelievably, von Aegir wears a similar expression on his face, eyes wide and aching with something Hubert can’t quite place. “Should we—do you wish to find out?”

Would that the Goddess he doesn’t believe in help him now, because Hubert can only answer, “Yes.”

Von Aegir releases Hubert’s hand where their fingers were intertwined and shifts to clutch his wrist instead. Without another word, he drags Hubert out the door, into the cool open night air that stings Hubert’s face as von Aegir leads them at a brisk, unforgiving pace. He’s gripping tight enough to leave imprints. Hubert flushes hot and cold all at once from the realization.

When they finally stop, von Aegir releases him for a moment, and Hubert doubles over to catch his breath. He takes stock of his surroundings as he pants, noting the stone pillars and statues, the moonlight glinting above…and, looming over them, the majestic statue symbolizing the pinnacle belief of the Church of Seiros.

He’s been brought to the Goddess Tower.

Before he can fully process the implications, all the legends, the wild tales—which von Aegir must believe in, or why else would he—Hubert is brusquely shoved against the statue, his hands pinned above his head, and von Aegir’s teeth descend upon his neck.

Hubert keens at the vicious scrape upon his skin that he never knew could be so sensitive. He’d never—there had never been ample reason to even contemplate this type of exploration, not when the achievement his and Edelgard’s goals could bring a far sweeter sort of pleasure than any of this, not when Hubert had singlehandedly assured his association with carnal instincts would always be nothing more than perfunctory in nature.

Von Aegir twists Hubert’s wrists together and clamps down on them with one strong, wide hand; the other trails down Hubert’s chest, deftly unworking the buttons there. His teeth bite down, hard, and Hubert shudders with his entire body. His hips roll forwards without permission, and when they meet with the solid outline of von Aegir’s length beneath his trousers, they both gasp.

Von Aegir ruts mercilessly against him, the friction sending dizzying sparks through Hubert’s nerves. Hubert gives to the grind right back, shameless and shameful all at once.

Hubert hisses through his teeth when von Aegir finally yanks his shirt open, exposing his chest to the harsh, cold air. Von Aegir’s head lifts from his initial prize, which throbs in a deliriously painful fashion, to stare at the mangled scars of Hubert’s own doing, inquisitive and wanting.

Tentative fingers trace the outline of a nipple. “Can I…”

Hubert finds it in himself to snap, “If you want to be useful, go lower.”

Von Aegir obliges instantly, eager to play the hero, and trails downwards to worm his hand down the front of Hubert’s trousers and into his smalls. His fingers roam, searching, and when they find their goal—when Hubert throws his head back, moaning as a pulse of heat blooms from his groin to every extremity—von Aegir makes a sound like he’s been punched.

He works Hubert’s clit between two fingers, each motion sending a new wave of arousal coursing through him, each more powerful than the last. Hubert doesn’t know how much more of this he can withstand; it’s so much _more_ than he could ever attain on his own, vast and overwhelming.

And as the pleasure crests over the edge, Hubert wonders wildly if Ferdinand might kiss him.

His orgasm hits him harder than any blow he’s ever absorbed on the battlefield. His vision blurs and his knees buckle, but von Aegir holds him upright, playing him as easily as a puppeteer does a marionette.

Only when he relaxes and stands more firmly on his own feet, albeit jittery, does von Aegir finally release him and step away, turning his body slightly. Hubert can still see the bulge in the front of von Aegir’s pants; he stupidly opens his mouth to say something, but von Aegir shakes his head.

“I will not soil my pants out in public,” von Aegir declares. Then his expression turns inexplicably shy. “Unless you wish to retire to my rooms with me…?”

Oh, Hubert wishes. And he hates himself for it.

“You’ve already pulled my attention from Lady Edelgard enough for tonight,” he settles for, intended as a sharp jab but sounding completely foreign on his tongue.

Von Aegir smiles ruefully, but there’s a knowing glint in his eyes before he makes to leave.

“Perhaps our goals will align another time.”

“Wait,” Hubert says dumbly.

“Hmm?”

“Did you.” He swallows past the lump in his throat. “Did you find out?”

Von Aegir says nothing. Despite _this_ hanging between them now, and all the tales surrounding this place, and what he’s just implied, no possible way for him to not know exactly what he’s done, oblivious to all that’s soon to come yet daring Hubert to change his mind—

This time, when von Aegir walks away, Hubert does not stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> [@nuanta_fic](https://twitter.com/nuanta_fic)


End file.
